


The Need to Forget

by Snowgrouse



Category: Hannibal (2001), Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris, The X-Files
Genre: F/F, Femslash, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Lesbianism, PWP, Quickie, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 11:49:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1427383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"We shouldn't be doing this," Scully hears herself mumbling as Clarice ignores her and bends her over the sofa. And yet that mumble comes from somewhere far away, muffled, from behind a veil of exhaustion, of the JD Mulder had stashed away in the filing cabinet. She hasn't slept in days, and neither has Clarice, and maybe this needed to happen, maybe this had been meant to happen. Right here in the mildewed basement of the J. Edgar Hoover building, right here on this creaking 70s sofa.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Need to Forget

**Author's Note:**

> Set circa "Hannibal" (the novel, that is, so this is Moore!Clarice) and somewhere during the first few seasons of the X-Files. Don't think about it too closely.

"We shouldn't be doing this," Scully hears herself mumbling as Clarice ignores her and bends her over the sofa. And yet that mumble comes from somewhere far away, muffled, from behind a veil of exhaustion, of the JD Mulder had stashed away in the filing cabinet. She hasn't slept in days, and neither has Clarice, and maybe this needed to happen, maybe this had been meant to happen. Right here in the mildewed basement of the J. Edgar Hoover building, right here on this creaking 70s sofa. Not that time they'd collapsed on top of each other after a hard run, her head on Clarice's thighs, when she had smelled her so keenly through her failed deodorant, her sweat and the bittersweet scent of her pussy. Not at last year's Christmas party when she'd been so sick she'd thrown up and Clarice had helped her into bed, undressed her and she'd drunkenly asked Clarice to kiss her. Clarice had, but only on her forehead, and she'd been furious, she remembers, so why resist now? 

Clarice clasps her by the cheeks and shakes her. "Dana, you're a goddamn idiot." 

Well, to be frank, Scully agrees. So she pulls Clarice into a harder kiss, pulls her towards herself with her legs. "You're the goddamn idiot," she still mumbles, though, because she has to have the last word. Always. Only arguing with Clarice is more fruitful than arguing with Mulder, because at least Clarice has logic, a sharp, piercing, no-nonsense logic. Straight to the point, as always, even after three shots of whiskey, and in the way she takes Scully's legs and wraps them around her waist, in the swiftness with which she now unbuttons Scully's blouse. Has she been with other women before? At the Academy, she had always wondered if Clarice was a dyke, and maybe that's what had made her curious, had drawn her to Clarice. 

Clarice pulls away from the kiss. "Stop it." 

"What?"

"You're analysing again. Never bring work into the bedroom, remember?"

Again, she's right, but it's not like Scully's going to admit that. So she brings her hands to Clarice's trousers and unzips her fly. "Oh, so you think I'm going to race a flying saucer through your vagina?" 

"That is a distinct possibility," Clarice mumbles into her mouth with a kiss as she kicks her jeans and her panties off. 

Dear Lord, is that how people see her now, a female Spooky? Spookette? She's going to show her. She's going to--

But then Clarice has pinned her to the sofa and her hand is in Scully's panties, the heel of her palm rough, heavy on her clitoris, her fingertips playing in her slit. Oh, God, Clarice _is_ an old dyke; or then just really good at masturbating, maybe, because a man sure as hell hasn't pulled anything like this on her before. Clarice knows the exact spot to press, the exact spot over the pubic bone, the exact area at the top, one that now makes Scully whimper into her mouth and spread her legs wider.

Oh, and Clarice likes that. She straddles Scully's thigh so that she can move on top of her better, pushing her back on the sofa until her own thigh presses against the back of her hand, so that she can put the weight of her entire body into her strokes. So that she can _fuck her,_ God, she is being fucked by a woman, shaking, twisting from arousal as Clarice slips her fingertips inside her. And no way is it deep enough, and she knows Clarice knows, and she's such a goddamn cow and _such a fucking star_ for doing this and Scully can't bear it. 

"Fuck."

"Do you like that?" Clarice drawls, never pausing in her thrusting, slipping her hand lower so that she can reach deeper inside.

"You bitch," Scully slurs, lifting her hips, fucking Clarice back, and it's perfect, perfect: she is starting to forget, oh, she is starting to forget. The stupid goddamn case, all the stupid goddamn serial killers and aliens in the world. And underneath that, the things she doesn't allow herself to think about. The things that had been inside her, right there where Clarice's fingers are, the things that had crawled up inside her, spawned inside her, stolen her eggs. She should be in shock, should be curling up in horror at the thoughts, but they are distant, distant. From somewhere far away, she watches as they slide out of her, flow out of her, dissolved by whiskey, pussy juice and _fuck._

Clarice just laughs and kisses her, and that kiss goes straight into her pussy, the kiss and the pleasure from Clarice's fingers meeting deep in her belly, setting off currents of heat within. Kisses, strokes, and Scully's pussy pulses, tightens, the currents growing into waves, mounting, rising, rising up her spine until they break from her throat as moans, break against Clarice's teeth. "Just, God, don't stop. Don't stop."

"Uh-huh?" Clarice grins. 

And then her mouth is on Scully's pussy and her fingers do a _thing_ and Scully's eyes roll back in her head. "Fuck!" she screams, her head thrown back, hurting as it meets the metal arm of the sofa again and again, but like she cares. "Fuck!" she screams once more and falls into release. She has no idea how many fingers Clarice has inside her; there's only pressure, magnificent pressure and now her pussy is sloshing, oh, God, she's never been this wet, and yet she keeps coming. Coming and coming as Clarice sucks on her clitoris, coming and coming and screaming and screaming and if Security bursts in, they can join in for all she cares. Because now she feels like she is everything but an agent, a doctor, a nervous wreck; no, now she's all pussy, all tits and thighs and orgasmic tremors that go on and on and on. 

When she comes to, Clarice's mouth is wet; she is kneeling up, wiping her mouth. _People fuck to forget,_ Scully thinks; _what are you trying to forget? Who are you trying to forget?_ Bastards like Krendler, and what he'd said about her--she knows enough; it's nothing she hasn't heard herself. It's always about the pussy, always about it, always about that big scary cunt they popped out of, yearn to get back into and therefore hate it. And she doesn't know how to, but she wants to love that pussy, wants to show Clarice how magnificent it is--no, no, she scolds herself. She doesn't need to show Clarice that, she doesn't need to tell her that because Clarice knows already. She only needs to reaffirm it. 

And she slides between Clarice's legs and does so, brushes her hair aside when it tangles in Clarice's pubic hair, _God,_ redhead fetishists would have a ball watching this. But that makes her think of Mulder jacking off and she doesn't want to think of Mulder jacking off right now. Ladies' night out. She's never tasted pussies other than her own, and empirical study reveals that yes, the taste is indeed preferable to sperm, thank you very much. She tries a few licks and sucks, and Clarice laughs, but it's a good laugh, an amused laugh, and Clarice groans and relaxes her hips, caresses Scully's head with her thighs.

"Push the hood back with your teeth, then suck." She bites her lip as Scully does so, then nods. "Oh, yeah. That feels good, fuck, yeah, go on."

Scully risks a few fingers; she hates it when men thrust in too fast, so she does exactly what Clarice did, only stroking softly at her entrance with two. And she isn't in a rush, no. She loves the way Clarice's accent gets thicker, more drawling, her voice lower as she tells her what to do, the way she grows wetter and wetter under her mouth and hands. That wetness is a good guide, as is her softness: she doesn't have to do much because it is as if Clarice's very body is pulling her fingers deeper inside, then clutching around them, clenching around them so forcefully Scully herself moans. 

"God!" Clarice groans, her hands patting at the cushions, at Scully's head. Clarice has undone her blouse and her breasts are bobbing with her breathing, she almost bent double against the end of the sofa now. And they're such pretty breasts, if smaller than Scully's. The way Clarice now pinches them herself, the way her nipples harden and flush and crinkle--and Scully had thought comparing a woman's nipples to coral had been but a trashy paperback metaphor. God, they are beautiful as they move like that, and all this from what she is doing with her mouth and fingers? She could get used to this lesbian thing.

But Clarice needs to forget: Scully can still see some darkness in her eyes, the dark rings around them, the gunpowder burns on her cheeks, a woman haunted. If she hadn't been pushed into this darkness she wouldn't be doing this right now, Scully is sure of it: if she didn't have that Damocles sword of the trial hanging over her head, if she didn't have the tabloids coming at her with torches and pitchforks. 

_Fuck it all. Fuck it all to hell,_ Clarice had said earlier today, and pretended there was something in her eye. In all the ten years Scully had known her, she'd never seen her cry. 

It's going to take a lot more than whiskey and a fuck to cure that; Scully knows this, but she sure as hell is going to make the fuck memorable. So she starts to move her fingers a little more, listening to Clarice, listening to her noises to find the exact spots that please her, the spots with which to dissolve her terrors in turn, if only for a little while. God, they are both damaged, but beautiful, beautiful; Clarice writhing there, her neck extended as if for the executioner's axe, blue veins over marble white: damned, sublime with the beauty of a Renaissance martyr. 

Clarice's hips jerk once, twice, and Scully knows she's found it, found the spot: she curls her fingers a little, then harder until Clarice jerks again, groaning so deep from her throat it echoes off the basement walls. It's not a ladylike moan, not feminine at all, so deep and so animal it rings truer than any soft cry would. There is a release building here, building from deep within Clarice's being and Scully draws it out, pulling her fingers back only to thrust them in further again, curling against that same spot, the softness of the tissue underneath her fingertips incredible--

And Clarice's head lolls down and she stares at Scully, her hair falling over her face, and she looks so scared, frightened like a child as she trembles there. She moves her mouth as if to speak, but brings her hand to her clitoris instead, and Scully lets her: she never stops moving her fingers inside Clarice, her hand so wet she can twist a third finger inside and it's then that Clarice howls "Fuck!" and falls into orgasm. She keens, staring into Scully's eyes and Scully holds her gaze, holds it as she curls her fingers again and again, meeting the thrusts of Clarice's hips, the ripples of her muscles. A man might withdraw his fingers too soon, not knowing how long a woman's orgasm can last, and Scully has always hated that; therefore, she keeps fucking Clarice, keeps fucking her with her hand, thrusting until she is sure she has wrung out every last tremor from her body. 

At last, Clarice groans and falls limp on the cushions, weaving with her hands, slurring something Scully can't make out. Presumably, that's Scully's cue to stop; she withdraws her fingers and slides onto the floor beside Clarice so she can kiss her, hold her head against her chest. Clarice makes a little noise of protest, but Scully holds her; hell, after this they are allowed a little cuddle. 

"None of that attitude now," Scully murmurs into her hair. "It's been a long enough day."

"Thanks, mom," Clarice murmurs, nuzzling Scully's neck.

Scully bursts out laughing. "Don't bring Freud into this."

"I dunno," Clarice says, "he seems like the sort of type who'd love to watch."

At least Clarice is softer now, less edgy. _Let me take you home,_ Scully wants to say, wants to drown her in blankets and tea and muffins and more sex, but that's far too dangerous right now. Instead, she just holds her, holds her for as long as it takes for her to calm down. Neither of them is capable of falling asleep like this, no matter how drunk--sometimes she wonders if the only agent who sleeps soundly is a dead agent. But they're still alive, at least, and that's something--oh, boy, is it something, considering. She listens to Clarice's heartbeat, her breathing; she's very much alive, and Scully's damned if she's going to let them make a martyr out of her. 

She kisses Clarice's hair. "I'm not going to say we'll make it through somehow. None of that mumbo-jumbo. I just want you to know that whatever happens--"

"Don't." Clarice stiffens.

Scully pulls back, laughing, blowing hair from her face. "I just want you to know that Clarice Starling, you're one hell of a bitch."

Clarice rolls her eyes and groans, but Scully shuts her up with a kiss. 

***

END

***


End file.
